


for the record.

by valcaines



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019), Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, Gunshot Wounds, Matter of Life and Death, Military, Military Training, Near Death Experiences, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Task Force 141, Undercover, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valcaines/pseuds/valcaines
Summary: history is indeed written by the victor.and in his eyes, you would always win.[ John "Soap" MacTavish x Reader ]
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> off-duty time would not last you that long.

After all these years, the world never ceased to remind you that rules never changed.

While the players of the game always rotated along with the enemy and the friendly alike, this dangerous life that many chose to lead had undeniable constants - etched onto your brain in a devout mantra, something to remember in your darkest or most fleeting moments.

Kill, or be killed.

That was the first thing that they taught you, at the beginning of those long and arduous days of training in the barracks. Scout out the situation and if there is any sign of remote danger, pull your gun first, or you will end up with a bullet in your head. Sometimes, it was better to shoot first and then ask questions - if you were still alive by then.

Though in your line of work, the learning phase never ended. Warfare shifted and changed constantly, forcing you to adapt. It was something you had to just come in terms with. At that point in your career, as sad as it was to think about it from a civilian’s perspective, it was all more creative and effective ways of getting confirmed kills. New weapons, new tactics brought with them new problems - along with new ways of dealing with them. Technology tackled advanced aircraft and armor, adding up to your arsenal.

One thing remained the same.

It all added up to the big stirring pot of the everlasting recipe - mass destruction.

And with destruction came in the casualties. The aftermath of modern combat. The rivers of blood on pavement, hands clawing at the burnt metal, scathed bodies crawling out of the smoky debris. Sights and sounds and screams you wanted to erase from your memory for a lifetime. The pain coarsing through the body after the penetration of a bullet. Sickening roars of helicopter engines giving out.

Yet, as a soldier, all you could do, all you were _authorized_ to do was to bury them deep down - so you could live to see another day. Another day to fight for the flag. For peace, for honor and for the sake of lives.

The lives of many against your only.

The warm mug a welcome distraction in your hands, your eyes would wander around the busy Regent Street of London, people walking around in the usual hustle and bustle of the shopping district. The smell of freshly ground beans from the cafes scattered around, mixing in with the pleasantness of the gray post-rainfall. A spectrum of vibrant colors of shopping bags and clothes pleasing your eyes - it had been a while since you had gotten to enjoy a couple of hours all saved for yourself. The book whose pages were between your fingers moments ago then closed, as your conscience lost itself within the faces creating the sea of people.

The lives you were sworn to protect. Sometimes it felt like remembering another life, far far away - that you had been one of them. A civilian. Who needed protection in times of immediate danger.

Some were smiling and laughing, without a care in the world, radiating energy and happiness which had been a blessing in the usual London gloom. Some were in professional attire, their strides just a bit faster and their expressions harboring that of stress, concern and exhaustion. Not too long ago, you had been one of them - but your brain did not let you dissociate from the constucted reality you had left just yet.

None of those troubles mattered when snipers left and right rained bullets on you. The stress of studying for a big test was nothing compared to being caught in blast radius, fearing to look around you so you do not see your friends dead and gone.

The echoes of your last name originating from an accented, deep voice reached your ears, rippling inside the busy cafe you had chosen to visit for the day. Coming closer and closer until they associated with a couple thuds of heavy feet and finally, a face, as you turned around to face whomever was looking for you.

_Out of all places, Captain._

It did not take you too long to get to your feet out of respect and sheer habit, offering him a nod in an attempt to hide your surprise. “Sergeant,” he would greet you with your rank, the commanding voice he used on the field to lead dampened - yet still powerful. It even had a small smile attached to it too, which was not unusual.

It made the thumping of your heart slow down. A civilian visit from your Captain usually meant bad news and noticing his mouth curl up under the beard calmed you down more than you ever thought.

“Captain Price,” you greeted back, arm gesturing to the seat right in front of you across the marble table, inviting him. “Please.”

The man, whom you had become so used to seeing in the famous military green was dressed in the simple and casual combination of a black jacket with jeans. It was a welcome change - not often did you see your commanding officer at a coffee shop in the heart of the city. Consequently, the air had been a bit awkward - just like how it felt when you felt the need to always show your best self, like there had been no room for mistakes.

That did not mean you could not try to get on his better side.

“Can I get you anything, Sir? Tea? I doubt they have a good pint here.”

That was when he looked directly in your eyes.

They said all soldiers had this blur in their eyes wherever they looked at. That no matter how happy they had been, no matter how much sparkle covered their worn-out irises, the dusty haze that veiled them was ever present. His familiar blue glint was subdued by some unknown, yet not lifeless. Not soulless. There was some sort of drive fueling him, the origins of it unbeknownst to you - the only thing you could discern was that it must have been for some good, judging by his chuckle and the slight shake of his head.

A file stamped with the all-too-familiar red confidential sign slid across the white marble along with him as he got settled in the chair, leaning his elbows slightly over the top.

“Raincheck, Sergeant, but I do have something that _you_ might like.”

And with that, his fingers pushed the rather thin file over to you, blue eyes gazing around the shop as he undoubtedly made sure everyone was minding their own business. Here at London, he knew he had been safer than most places and yet you could only attest to the cautiousness of the man.

An eyebrow slightly raised as you leaned a bit forward, the initial welcome surprise slowly yielding to apprehension of what was inside the document. Another mission assingment had been the last thing you wanted to see after the literal living hellhole of the battlezone you had last been to. A part of you did not want to open up that cover but the other half of you yearned desperately to.

With a quick look to confirm, once you got his nod, you yielded to your other half.

And with every second spent looking at the papers containing profiles and overviews adorned with the faint Crusader shield watermarks, your eyebrows would furrow even more in confusion. Towards the bottom of the page, you could spot the one-liner character profiles for soldiers - some you had recognized and worked with, some names ringing no bells at all.

Then there it was. It was a mystery to you why it had taken you that long to find it. Right under the line occupied by a certain “John ‘Soap’ Mactavish” was your full name, with a old picture of you that belonged to one of your earlier days of training.

_What the hell kind of a name is Soap?_

“Now, I know you’re on the reserve for the time being,” Price spoke, breaking you out of your silent concentration as your head snapped up to divert focus into him. “But your skills in combat were not unnoticed.”

That made you proud inside, yet on the outside - it manifested in a subtle way of a simple yet courteous nod as you waited for him to continue. Closing the file for the time being, you felt the air shift as he leaned in towards you - voice dropping lower and tone growing grave.

“We have a huge war looming in the horizon, Sergeant,” he said, piercing orbs staring right into your soul. The kind of stare that could have the toughest of soldiers crack and break down, that could stop the bullet in trajectory.

“Millions of lives are at stake. You saw what happened in Urzikistan - you were there, on the frontlines.”

The mere mention of the place made your jaw clench and a gulp run down your throat, the memories of utter bloodshed still fresh in your mind.

“It is going to happen again.”

“How can I help?” slipped out of your mouth before your brain could control it, completely forgetting the fact that you had been granted off-duty time and was currently on it. Forgetting that you had to worry about taking care of your own demons in your head first, before jumping right into a war you thought you had just ended.

“I want you to be on my team,” he simply said, a look of reassurance thrown your way as he folded his arms on the table, head tilting just a bit to gauge yur reaction. His finger reached out to gently tap on the folder, gently opening the tab and pointing to the list of soldiers including yours truly.

“You will be working with handpicked warriors, the toughest of them all. Undertaking the most covert and dangerous operations - changing the world as you do it.”

There was this tone of finality in his voice that made it feel natural for you to follow everything he was instructing you to. Of course it was - he was your commanding officer, yet what he was asking out of you this time was much more than a simple recruitment for an operation.

No, what he made it sound like was that his team would be something akin to a ghost - working behind enemy lines, not alerting a single soul. It honored you that he had included you along with the names of seemingly renown soldiers, selected for off-the-grid duty due to your previous success. But was there really a need to add any additional danger to your already-risky life? It was a miracle you had not died yet and you were not so sure if another covert operation team would help with your chances. These kinds of operations only ended in either of the two ways - your mutilated corpse in a body bag or carrying your friend’s instead.

There probably also would not be many other occassions where Captain Price, one of the most trusted officers in the Services, would approach you with such an opportunity.

As your mind raced in crazy thought traffic, the sounds of the outside world and the otherwise peaceful cafe had been muffled. It was only you, him, and that little paper file you grazed your fingertips on, in order to maintain at least a slice of reality. Decisions like these had never been easy to make, especially when they would completely change your life and possibly your entire outlook. They never would be easy - there was not much “easy” associated to your line of work.

And yet going into it in the first place was something you had willingly chosen.

After all of that blood, sweat and lead - how could you say no?

Taking a deep breath as your lips moved to echo your determined voice, you spoke sofly with a nod. Chest loosening as you let out a breath you had no idea you had been holding for so long.

“I’m in, Sir.”

The ghost of a smile turned into a real one as his hand extended itself over the table, an almost proud nod as you shook it as firmly as you could.

_“Welcome to the 141.”_


	2. bravo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it was time you tied the name to the person behind it.

[Day 0, 2011 - 06:50:12, Credenhill, UK]

Modern warfare was a man’s world.

Everyone knew it, everyone acknowledged it. It was as if there was this unvisible barrier surrounding certain aspects of the life, unwritten rules memorized by many soldiers.

No one would speak about it, nor would anyone bother to, but everytime the guns were locked and loaded, fuels of engines were replenished and explosives were strapped - it was one of the many things running rampant in your mind.

Though you had been young compared to the others, having some considerable amount of years of service under your belt had shown you that some truths were indeed hard to swallow. Yet they had to be accepted nonetheless - it was just the way things worked in your line of duty. After all, it had been just one of the many facts of the matter that you were forced to suppres deep down into your subconscious, along with many emotions associated with them.

They taught you how to suck in your much-preserved pride as you crawled in deep gravel and dirt, your skin a mess made out of mud. As you collapsed out of dehydration during the trek in the jungles, only to be pulled back to your feet to face yet another barked order. As you roared in pain when a bullet lodged itself into your flesh, twice as loud as it was pulled out.

They never taught you how not to miss the fallen, the friend and the comrade, or how to forget about those nightmares creeping into your being at night.

It had taken a lot of pondering and controlling your mental before stepping onto that plane and getting flown out to Credenhill. Being placed on the reserve regiment for some time had gotten to you - it felt like an eternity since you had been out in the field, deployed on an assignment. Weeks that had been filled with gathering intelligence and running strategy behind operations would slowly transform themselves into lots of pushups and reloading, that you had absolutely no doubt about.

However, spoken in the silent mumble of your lips, you prayed your body did not betray you - operating behind screens and files was lightwork compared to the drills that you suspected Captain Price would put you through. At some point the muscle memory would kick in, that was for sure, yet what concerned you was how long it would take till that eventually came true.

_One step at a time, Sergeant._

It indeed was a beautiful day out. The rays of sunshine out in the vast concrete of the base courtyard emanated within the short sleeves, providing some much-needed warmth and comfort. Not much time had been given as you arrived on base - “get yourself to the range right away, soldier,” were the instructions that had followed the moment your feet touched the earth in the forsaken hours of the early morning.

Task Force 141. Now, that was a nice mouthful for classic selection training, considering the fact that you had been shipped out to the common 22nd Regiment training compound, the choice baffling you. Operating behind enemy lines within a covert squad certainly could not work when you were right where the enemy expected you to be - one of the main training bases of the entire Special Air Service. He must have been planning something substantial yet hidden behind plain sight - it had been impossible to get a word out of the renown Captain ever since he had approached you in London - in broad daylight, much to your added surprise in hindsight.

That meant you would just have to wait and see.

As your light steps took you towards the armory, clad in your gear of tactical shirt and pants with all the holsters strapped in place, there was a certain mix of emotions harbored in your heart and resonated within your being. Some confusion due to the lack of direction in your assignment.

And then, even though faint, came in a deeply-lodged sense of peace. How everything seemed to fit just a bit tighter, a little bit better - the perfect little adjustment to the crooked painting on the wall. The atmosphere of the green hangars and tents, the smell of tank engine fuel with the sound of shell casings dropping, one after the other, in soft clinks. The constant rush and the ever-lasting adrenaline.

There was a certain habituality to it, an accustomed year’s ease and some beauty in the routine of it all - and your soul had apparently longed for it for too long.

_Welcome to your new home._

_“_ Glad you made it, Sergeant,” a familiar face would greet you as bright lights hit you upon entering the hangar, his hand gesturing towards the guns laid out on the table. Nodding your head with a small smile, you would oblige.

“I trust you know the drill. Report back to me after you’re comfortable with the rifle - Captain Price wants to see you.”

That made your jaw clench in anticipation, or was it more of a bottled worry? Whatever it had been, it certainly did help as your bullets rained down on target after target, getting used to the weight of the rifle within your hands - while some shots had been a bit lacking, it did not take too many attempts for you to get back into the groove. The metallic sounds of fake targets lowering and the explosions helping you remember.

Footsteps behind you as yet another target went down in a screeching rusty sound. It seemed like he had chosen to watch, after all. “Not bad. Might even be a bit better than the FNG,” Gaz would comment on your shooting - which you believed was his attempt at being as nice as possible - as you turned your body to face him, your grip on the weapon in front of you relaxed. That earned him a little cocking of your eyebrow, tilting your head in a newfound curiosity.

“FNG?”

And there came the words, along with a nod.

“Fresh out of Selection. His name is Soap.”

There it was again. That name. Now, you had heard your fair share of silly little nicknames thrown around to soldiers - the kinds that stuck with them forever. This had to make the list of the best you had heard.

_What the hell kind of a name is Soap, anyway?_

It was like he read your mind, noticing that silent pause coupled with the upwards curl in your lips - returning the smile lightheartedly as he gestured you to follow him outside. “Weird name, eh? Captain was not willing to take it easy on him,” he commented as he walked alongside you to the far hangar, the fresh air hitting you along with the grumbles and low roars of the armor passing by.

“I bet,” you returned, a slight chuckle on your lips. Your tone growing just a tad bit lower, softer and meaningful just before the comfortable silence of your walk was cut off at the entrance of your destination.

“It’s good to see you, Kyle.”

“Likewise,” he acknowledged, giving you the type of understanding nod shared between old comrades alike - gesturing you to enter through the vast metal doors as you took a deep breath in your slightly nervous state due to the unknowns behind that hangar wall.

Orders were barked, audible even right from the entrance as you heard commotion. A replica of an obstacle course was occupying most of the space, the Union Jack and the SAS emblem proudly hanging next to each other on the far end. Shots were being fired, and you could hear the heavy footsteps sprint down the wooden flooring.

On the left side, which quickly became your next focal point, stood your new team - a few soldiers huddled up and clad in blackout tactical gear, watching the monitors to perhaps gauge how well the soldier running the course was doing. And of course there he was - the signature beard was recognizable from miles away as he leaned into the microphone installed, practically yelling to the intercom even though the poor soldier was most likely double-hearing him with the echoes of his tone.

His voice followed after a couple more final gunshots dropped in the distance - _"Sprint to the finish!"_

As you advanced towards observation with Gaz announcing your presence, you could not help but note the uniforms. Completely blacked out gear, light waxed material. Fit for a night time operation - in and out, close quarter combat. Relatively not too heavy material that would last in water and land. It made you wonder what your next mission would look like already.

“Welcome back into the fight, Sergeant,” the familiar commanding voice spoke, the blue eyes softening ever so slightly upon the sight of you yet never losing professionalism.

“It’s good to be back, Sir,” came your response, standing still and awaiting orders as you took a look around your surroundings once more - the static of the screens helping just a tad to numb your mind as you felt all pairs of eyes in that room were focused in on you.

Nothing you had not handled before, so you stood up even straighter - and put a brave face, jaw clenched.

“We’ll debrief for the mission ahead once the FNG carries himself over,” he instructed all the others, his tone sounding almost tired of dealing with the new guy, as the other soldiers that you could not really recognize behind the dark fabric chuckled. With the grip on your weapon relaxed, you continued to hold it against your chest like you were trained to do, losing yourself in the gentle upheaval of the base behind you. The smell of cordite coming in closer, it was followed by residual panting and boots against concrete.

“Pretty good, Soap. But I’ve seen better.”

As you searched for the body to finally associate the name to, it did not take long for you to spot yet another pair of blues, these ones a bit stormy and icy in the little specks - piercing nonetheless. Tall, you would note, as his built legs took him towards the monitors you stood near. His chest heaved in a mild rhythm, the weapon clad iron tight in his gloved hands - in the split second that you had gazed at him, you would also spot his mohawk, which he surprisingly sported well.

_Oh._

What intrigued your curiosity more was that he was staring right at you too - the clenching of his jaw indicated that he was trying not to, for too long. In an attempt to break the uncomfortable nature of the interaction, he would nod in an almost respectful way, though there had been some sort of light reflecting in his irises.

It was Captain Price’s authoritative voice and the clearing of his throat that brought you back to reality, from that interlude which felt like it lasted almost forever. After a soft nod of acknowledgement thrown at the man, your focus was again redirected back to your officer in command, awaiting your next assignment.

“Listen up - the cargo ship mission is a go. Get yourselves sorted out. Wheels up at 0200. Dismissed.”

A plethora of strong echoes of _yes, sir_ rang throughout the space, the tone intensified at the hinted urgency of the mission. Perhaps you should not have been so surprised when Captain Price called out your name, beckoning you to come hither.

“Sergeant, it’s your turn to run the CQB test. See if you can get the squadron record broken, eh?”

Maybe it was your eyes lying to you in the early hours of the morning but you could have sworn you saw Gaz’s smile from the edge of your vision as he headed out from the hangar, with the FNG trailing right beside him, sunlight seeking to outline his broad back to you, adorned by the weapon strapped down. With no other evident choice presented to you other than following orders, you did so - this time, with much more purpose.

Was it the fact that you trusted Price with your life? Or was it how you fought side by side in the trenches with Gaz, as dirt and bullets rained down over you both? Was it the way the squadron welcomed you in without question nor judgement, without having their eyes trail down all over you laced in other intentions?

Was it the brief eye contact you had with yet another new soldier into the squadron that told you, somewhere deep within your subconscious, that everything would be just fine?

This de novo sense of excitement and vigor within you, originating from an unknown source led you towards the ladder with considerable ease - you would not notice the way Soap’s eyes lingered on you just for the briefest of moments, turning back before stepping out of the sliding doors - before Gaz eventually and practically dragged him out by his arm.

And that night, during the only time he got to write in his journal before the looming mission, Sergeant MacTavish would start the hard lines and edges of the very, very rough sketch, which would end up as his most prized artwork - a drawing of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot stop writing this. super excited for this story - I know I am super late to the fandom but please let me know what you think!! much love <3

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god I am SO late to the fandom but I cannot stop writing & thinking about Soap. grew up playing Modern Warfare and I think my love for him will never end. I promise I wil keep on continuing all my works and just wanted to thank all of you so much for all the love & support. please let me know what you think!


End file.
